


(Will Not) Let You Go

by theimprobable1



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Communication, Fix-It of Sorts, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: “He was going to break up with me,” I say, because if I say it out loud maybe I’ll finally stop clinging to hope that it isn’t true.*What happened after the end of Wayward Son
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 43
Kudos: 339





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you read a book and the only way to keep on living afterwards is to write a fix-it. Wayward Son was that kind of book for me. I thought this would just a quick little ficlet, but that was before I discovered how very nearly impossible it is to force these two to have an actual conversation, so now I exepect about 3-4 chapters.
> 
> This is the first time I've written fic for a new fandom in... six years, I think? I forgot how terrifying it is.

**PENELOPE**

I admit it: I panicked.

After the week I’ve had, I don’t think anyone would blame me for panicking when my brother called to tell me that Watford was on fire. I’ve been constantly on edge the last few days, so of course my first instinct was immediately to spring to action. Except in that moment, in that rush of fear and dread, I didn’t stop to think… what action? What can we do, halfway across the world? We can’t make our plane leave sooner and we can’t make the flight faster. And even if we could, then what? Premal called simply to let me know that our mother’s place of work was on fire, to keep me informed, not to ask me to immediately come back and handle the situation because no one else could possibly do so. Being Simon Snow’s ~~sidekick~~ dread companion for eight years has made me think that all of the world’s magickal problems are mine to solve, but they aren’t. This one isn’t, especially not when I’m still on a different continent. 

But it took me a while to think of all of that, and instead of a calm and rational response I simply managed to stress everyone out for no reason. That isn’t like me at all, but, again, after the week that I’ve had? That we’ve all had? I can’t even by angry at myself for failing to keep my cool.

Except for the fact that I’m pretty sure I interrupted something between Simon and Baz on the beach. I didn’t really notice it at the time, but as we packed and made our way to the airport, the strained silence and distance between them became increasingly obvious. More obvious than usual, I mean. I know things between them haven’t been exactly sunshine and rainbows for a while and Simon has had a closer relationship with the couch and dry cider than with Baz for weeks now, but I thought that the change of scenery may have actually done the trick. Or done something, at least. I don’t remember the last time I saw them kiss the way they did after the renaissance fair. I thought… I don’t know. I don’t actually know anything about how relationships are supposed to work, do I? But I remember the way they were looking at each other on that beach, and I can see the way Simon keeps carefully avoiding Baz’s eyes, while Baz looks at him like he thinks it’s his last opportunity to memorise his features.

I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from interrupting them. Perhaps they would have talked things out by now, Chomsky knows they need to. But instead, here we are. Stuck at the airport because our flight is delayed (of course it is), with Simon and Baz seemingly determined to put as much distance between themselves as possible. Even Agatha and Shepard have noticed something’s wrong (more wrong than usual) - they haven’t said anything, but I can tell. 

Simon has been standing by the windows for at least an hour now, watching planes taxiing on the tarmac without moving a muscle. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so still. Baz is sitting on the floor, seemingly messing with his phone but really just watching Simon and looking greyer than ever, even though I know for a fact he fed just before we left for the airport. It hurts to share the same space with them. Where are the times when their constant flirting drew me up the wall?

**SIMON**

_“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”_

_“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”_

_“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”_

**BAZ**

Bunce sits down next to me, stretching out her legs to keep people from looking up her skirt. Skirts are such an impractical garment, really. Why would anyone want to wear something that you have to constantly check to make sure your underthings aren’t showing? But it’s part of Bunce’s look, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in trousers. Have I? Perhaps I have, I just never gave it much thought. The only reason I’m thinking about it now is to avoid thinking about other things. Like the reason why Bunce decided to assume this uncomfortable position on this disgusting airport carpet to sit next to me. I knew she would. I’ve seen her watching us.

Well. Watching me and watching Snow. Not really an _us_ anymore, is there. He hasn’t even looked at me since the beach.

Bunce nudges me with her elbow and pushes a bag of chocolate-covered cherries into my line of sight. I take one because taking one is easier than telling her I don’t want any. Sour sweetness explodes on my tongue and I nearly gag because Simon would love it. He loves cherries.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted something earlier,” she offers quietly.

I shrug. I think I finally get why Snow speaks in shrugs all the time -- sometimes it’s the only way to react without throwing up.

I watch the tense line of his shoulders and wish I could ease the knots out with my fingers.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Bunce asks, a little awkwardly. She’s not exactly one for emotional heart-to-hearts.

“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?” I counter. I can’t say his name. “ _He_ ’s your best friend.”

“But out of the two of you he’s the one less likely to be willing to talk. Besides, you’re my friend too.”

I take another cherry. They taste like a happy Simon who’s eager to kiss me.

“He was going to break up with me,” I say, because if I say it out loud maybe I’ll finally stop clinging to hope that it isn’t true. It is -- I saw it in his eyes, clear as day. He’s hurting, and somehow I’m making it worse. “That’s what you interrupted.”

**SIMON**

But he won’t be happy anywhere with me either. He isn’t. How could he be, when all I do is make him miserable and drag him down? He’ll get over it. Over me. I bet it won’t take all that long either. He’ll meet someone else. Someone like _Lamb_ \--- no. Someone better. Someone worthy of him. Someone able to give him what he deserves. Someone who’s more than just an empty shell.

He’ll forget about me, and he’ll be happy.

**PENELOPE**

“What?” I almost yelp, jerking away from Baz. “No. That’s not -- it can’t be. He _loves_ you, why would he break up with you?”

Baz starts and looks at me for the first time, his grey eyes dull with pain. “Did he… tell you that?” he whispers.

It’s evident that he never told _Baz_ that, that’s for sure. I want to swallow my tongue. “He didn’t have to,” I admit. “It’s obvious that you love each other.” Or it used to be. Now… well.

Baz scoffs and looks away from me again. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it, Bunce. You’re not exactly an expert on relationships.”

His words sting, but -- he’s right, isn’t he? What do I know?

“Sorry,” he murmurs almost immediately. “I didn’t mean… Sorry.”

I shake my head, trying to push thoughts of Micah out of my mind. Nothing can be done about that, not anymore. But perhaps something can still be done about Simon and Baz. 

“No, you’re right. I’m not. But… you do love him, don’t you? I’m not wrong about that.” **On love’s light wings** doesn’t lie.

He says nothing, which is answer enough.

“Have you told him?” I ask gently, even though I think I know the answer to that too.

“I don’t think he wants to hear it.” His eyes fix on Simon, who’s still leaning against the railing, looking out at the runway. I imagine him turning away from the glass, looking at Baz and walking towards him like Baz is a beacon guiding him home, but he doesn’t.

“I think you should tell him,” I say to Baz. “How is he supposed to know if you don’t tell him?”

“You just said it was obvious.”

I raise an eyebrow. (Baz doesn’t see, he’s still looking at Simon.) “This is Simon we’re talking about,” I point out. The corner of Baz’s mouth twitches weakly.

He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to… push him. Make him feel like he has to say it back.”

We both watch Simon for a while. I realise I really don’t know anything about love at all. I treated it like a certainty, like a matter of course. Of course I love Micah. Of course Micah loves me. Of course Simon and Baz love each other. But it’s not like that at all. It doesn’t happen because it’s convenient, because it fits in with the plans you’ve made for your life. Because you think it makes sense. I thought Micah and I made sense. And I thought Simon and Baz made sense. Ever since that moment I realised they were together, it felt like puzzle pieces that I didn’t know were puzzle pieces were finally falling into place. I _still_ think that.

“If you think he wants to break up,” I say slowly, “what have you got to lose?”

Finally, they announce that our flight is boarding.

**BAZ**

This flight is even worse than the first. Mainly because Simon went to considerable trouble to make sure he wouldn’t be sitting next to me. So now I’m squashed between Bunce and Shepard (again), and Snow’s across the aisle next to Agatha. That’s all right, I’m used to being jealous of her, I’ve had years of practice. I just never thought I’d have to be again. I never thought I’d be jealous of anyone simply for sitting next to him. (Well. All right. I have in fact been jealous of people sitting next to him many times. But not like this.)

Would it really be so much to ask for him to sit next to me? People sit next to complete strangers on flights and they cope, but Simon Snow can’t sit next to me. Even though he hasn’t broken up with me _yet_. I could have pretended to fall asleep on his shoulder again, stolen this one last moment with him. But no. I don’t get to have that, because he’d rather sit next to his ex-girlfriend than have me touch him, even just a little.

I pretend to fall asleep anyway, to avoid the cruel world and the waves of sympathy wafting off Bunce (and to avoid potential arguments she and Shepard might get into). I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want to have a _reason_ for needing sympathy. I think I doze off, because an indeterminable amount of time later I become aware of empty space next to me and I open my eyes to find Bunce gone, probably to join the endless queue for the loo. 

The lights in the cabin have been dimmed, it’s apparently nighttime. When I turn my head I have an unimpeded view of Snow, watching another pointless action movie. The light of the screen illuminates his face, making his moles stand out. 

He’s so lovely. Even when he’s breaking my heart, I want to keep looking at him because he’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. (I’m clearly distrubed, what else is new?) I’m used to that. Wanting him from a distance, wanting him while he doesn’t want me. It’s all right. It’s all right.

Perhaps he can feel me looking, because he turns his head and glances my way. His gaze meets mine for a split second, skittering away immediately. But then he looks back again, and meets my eyes fully for the first time since the beach.

Even with my superior vision, it’s hard to read his expression in the dimness of the cabin. It seems pained, almost as heart-broken as I feel -- but that could be just the play of light and shadow on his features. Then his face softens, and he looks at me like… like it’s almost a year ago and we’re in his bed, curled up in each other’s arms, fumbling and a little bit terrified and utterly uncertain how far we want to go, but so, so certain that we want to be there, together. His lips press together and then part, like he’s soundlessly whispering my name.

I don’t know what it means. How can he look at me like that, with such tenderness, when he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want me? Is this some kind mid-flight, middle-of-the-Atlantic thing? Your life is temporarily put on hold, stuck in a limbo where nothing seems quite real and the passage of time is a meaningless construct, so you can do things you normally wouldn’t, like make your still-but-not-for-long-anymore boyfriend feel like you might actually still want him after all. It doesn’t count. Like anything that happened between us on this god-forsaken trip to America doesn’t count. I got to be kissed breathless by Simon against the boot of a Mustang, I got to hold him in my arms under an endless sky, but it doesn’t count. It was just a brief respite from our real lives, where the gulf between us keeps getting bigger by the minute and he’s going to break up with me the second he musters the courage and no one interrupts him.

A tear prickles in the corner of my eye. Simon unbuckles his seatbelt, and for a second I'm convinced he's going to cross the aisle, sit in Bunce's seat, take my head in his hands and wipe the tear away with his thumb. But he doesn't, of course he doesn't. He breaks eye contact, gets up and walks away down the aisle without a second glance. As if that soft connection between us hadn't happened.

Bunce is right - I really don't have anything to lose. Not anymore. And if we're doomed, at least I'll know I didn't keep the most important thing in my life from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**SIMON**

The toilet cubicle is so tiny I’d never fit in it with my wings. Kind of like my entire life: I just don’t fit in it. A Normal with a pair of wings and a tail. Like the dragon said: an abomination. Baz doesn’t deserve to be saddled with someone like that. And once I have them removed, I’ll just be a Normal, and a boring, useless one at that. No one a gorgeous, powerful vampire-slash-mage should waste time with. That’s how the saying goes, isn’t it? If you love something, set it free. I should have done it ages ago.

It’s just hard not to be selfish, when he looks at me like he did just now, when he says things like _‘Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?’_ It makes me want to cling to the illusion that he’s mine a little bit longer, even though I know I just make him unhappy. But I have to stop that. I need to let him go. I need to find a place in the world where I won’t be a burden. 

Penny switches on her phone as soon as we land at Heathrow and immediately lets us know that the fire at Watford has been put out. Material damage is extensive, but no one got hurt, and it seems that the fire was started accidentally, by something as mundane as a cigarette. A part of me is disappointed that there’s no new mystery for me to solve, no way to pretend, for a little while, that I can still be useful and save the day. Another part of me sort of enjoyed the idea of Watford burning to the ground, I think. It would be symbolic, in a way.

I avoid looking at Baz as we make our way through the airport. I know it’s cowardly, but if I look at him it will just remind me how much I want to keep him (not that I ever forget) and I’m too exhausted to deal with that right now, not to mention surrounded by people, some of whom (read: Penny) are way too focused on me.

We take three separate cabs - one for Agatha, one for Baz and one for me, Penny and Shepard, who’s apparently going to be staying with us, not that I was consulted. I hope he likes the me-shaped indent in the sofa. Baz could have taken the same cab as us, he doesn’t live that far, but he simply took a separate one without discussing it. I know I have no right to be hurt by that.

Everyone thinks I’m unobservant but I do notice _some_ things. Like when my best friend is bursting with the need to say something and just waiting for the right opportunity. I try to avoid her but she’s sneaky and once we get home she forces her way into my bedroom before I can collapse on the bed and try to sleep it all off. 

“You and Baz need to talk,” Penny says without preamble. I try ignoring her, hoping she will get the hint and leave me alone. She doesn’t. “He thinks you want to break up, Simon.”

That gets my attention. “Did – did he tell you that?”

Penny throws up her arms and huffs. “See, that’s precisely your problem. You need to talk to each other, instead of asking _me_ what the other said! Is he right?”

I shrug. I don’t know how to explain this to Penny, and in all honesty, I don’t want to. I don’t want to explain this to anyone.

“ _Simon_.”

I sigh. “I don’t _want_ to. It’s just… for the best.”

“ _Simon_ ,” Penny says again, but her tone is different now. Soft, incredulous. “How can that be for the best?”

I turn away from her, dragging my fingers through my hair. I’m still not used to how short it is now.

“He deserves better than me,” I finally voice the truth that’s been weighing me down for months. Surely Penny has to see that. Surely she has to see that _she_ deserves better than me. (Maybe that’s why Shepard’s here.)

Penny’s quiet for a second. I make a point of unpacking my suitcase and pretending I’m not actually having this conversation.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” she says eventually, her voice so gentle it hurts. Penny’s supposed to sound reasonable and determined, not _gentle_. “You don’t get to decide that for him. If that mess with M-Micah taught me anything, it’s that you can’t assume you know how the other person feels. You need to actually talk to them and be willing to listen to what they have to say. I wasn’t, and look where that landed me. You’re not doing Baz any favours by deciding what’s best for him.”

“She’s right, you know,” says another voice, making me jump. Shepard is standing in the doorway. “Communication is key in a relationship. I knew a naiad once and she–-”

“Great snakes!” I exclaim, throwing a pair of balled up socks on the floor with far more force than necessary. “Can’t you tell this is a private conversation?” Why exactly is he here, anyway? (Unless it’s to replace me as Penny’s new best friend.) I wasn’t really paying attention when Penny explained it. Something about a curse. Probably got cursed for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Sorry!” He lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but the door was open. And it’s obvious that you and Baz have a lot of unexpressed…” He cut himself off, clearly deterred by the look on my face. “Anyway, I just wanted to ask whether you happen to have a spare toothbrush, I forgot to pack mine.”

“Check the cabinet under the sink,” Penny tells him, her tone making it clear that he should leave us alone, and mercifully he gets the hint. She turns back to me.

“Promise me you’ll talk to Baz, _honestly_ , before you do something you could regret for the rest of your life.”

She doesn’t get it: I _know_ I’ll regret it. Baz is the best thing in my life, how could I _not_ regret giving him up? But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Baz won’t. … Will he?

Penny grips my wrist, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes are blazing. “Simon. Promise me.”

The thing is, she may have a point, sort of. Baz and I haven’t really been talking. Which is entirely my fault. I’ve been pushing him away, distancing myself from him, and he can’t have any idea why. ( _I_ barely have any idea why.) He deserves an explanation, at least. Even though then he’ll know the full extent of how fucked up I am. It’s the least I can give him.

“All right. I promise.”

**BAZ**

Snow shows up at my door the next morning, holding two Starbucks cups.

“Hi,” he says awkwardly, his eyes looking everywhere but at me. “I brought coffee.”

I stare at him for a moment, trying to remember the last time he came here. Usually it’s me who goes to his and Penny’s flat. Firstly because even though Fiona’s away most of the time, it’s still a bit awkward to bring your boyfriend to a flat you share with a parental figure, especially one who’s wont to ask about your sex life at the least opportune moment. And secondly… because Simon hasn’t really been leaving his flat at all lately, the trip to America notwithstanding. 

“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the proffered cup and stepping aside to let him in. My stomach twists. I didn’t think this was how it was going to go. I thought _I_ would have to go see _him_ and so I would get the chance to extend the illusion for a little while longer. I didn’t think he’d want to end it enough to actually leave the house because of it. Or attempt to soften the blow with a pumpkin mocha breve, made to perfection because he knows exactly how I like it and what instructions to give to the barista. 

We sit on the sofa, so far apart that another person could comfortably fit between us. There’s a tense silence for way too long, but I can’t bring myself to break it.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says eventually, his voice so quiet I have to strain to hear him. “For being such a terrible boyfriend. More terrible than expected, I mean.”

Crowley, this is so much worse than I thought it would be. My throat feel pinhole tight. “Simon…”

“I know I’ve treated you terribly these last few… months,” he speaks over me, like this is some sort of speech he’s rehearsed. “You haven’t done anything to deserve that, and I’m sorry.”

“Haven’t I?” I must have done. Something to drive him away. Being too insistent, somehow, even though I tried not to be. Asking him for too much.

He shakes his head, like he did on the beach. Was it really just yesterday? His hands are shaking, and he looks desperately unhappy.

“None of this is your fault, Baz. It’s just me. I’m just – I’m too – I just can’t do this.”

There it is, complete with an “it’s not you, it’s me”. I feel my insides turn to ice.

“Why? If it’s not something I did, then why?”

He sighs deeply. “You know why, Baz. In your heart of hearts. You know you deserve someone better than me.”

It takes me a second to process what he just said, mainly because it’s so completely out of the realm of what I could have expected. And because we’ve already talked about this. Ages ago.

“What?” I turn bodily towards him, desperate to get my point across, but he’s determinedly look only at his coffee cup. “Snow, that’s rubbish. I _told_ you that.” How did I not realise this was still bothering him? How could I miss it? I thought we were past this.

“It’s true, though. I’d only slow you down. I have no magic, no purpose, no… nothing. You deserve better. You can go back to America, or find–”

“No,” I interrupt him firmly. “I’m not letting you break up with be because you think it’s for my own good. It’s not happening.” I’d let him go in a heartbeat if I thought it would make him happier. It would kill me but I’m already dead, so what. But like this? No way. _No way_.

“Baz,” he sighs, like I’m the one who’s being difficult. “I don’t want to be the thing that makes you unhappy.”

“The only thing that makes me unhappy is that you’re pushing me away!” My voice rises against my will. “That I don’t know what you want from me, or how to give you what you need. I don’t give a fuck about magic. I was never in love with your _magic_ . I’m in love with _you_!”

He startles and finally looks at me, his blue eyes wide.

“I love you, Simon Snow,” I say more quietly. It’s not actually hard to say it at all. “And it’s okay,” I add hastily, “you don’t have to… say anything. I just need you to know. I love you, I have for literal years, and you losing your magic didn’t make a difference in it. You’re still the most extraordinary person I know. You’re still the only one I want.”

I think a part of me hoped that saying _I love you_ would solve everything. He’d say it back, and then we’d seal it with a kiss and make love in front of the fireplace, and everything would be all right. But that’s not what happens. He doesn’t say it back, for one. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, and breathes, and swallows. And breathes, and swallows, and looks at me.

And then he reaches across the empty space between us and takes my hand in his.

**SIMON**

He loves me. Baz loves me.

It’s not exactly a surprise, but it also is. I think I’ve sort of known since the White Chapel, but it’s not the same to _sort of_ know and to actually know. And I guess I never really believed it, not fully, not after I realised how little of me was left. Because how could he? All I can do is disappoint him. But he does. He looks at me all fierce and beautiful and determined and there’s no doubt in my mind that he means it. 

He means it, and I love him so much it hurts, yet I can’t say it back. The words weigh heavy in my throat, nearly choking me. It had been so easy to say it to Agatha – maybe because I didn’t really feel it. Or because I wasn’t so fucked up yet. I can’t say it now, but I can’t reject him either, even though it would be for the best and I know it. He’s so painfully earnest. He loves me, he still wants me despite how broken I am, and that only goes to show he doesn’t understand his own worth. I should make him see, force him to understand he’d be better off without me, but I can’t. I’m too weak, too selfish. I want his love too much to reject it when it’s offered so determinedly. Even though I don’t deserve it and have absolutely nothing to give him in return. I can’t even say the three measly words.

I force my hand to move and reach for his, and even that seems like superhuman effort.

**BAZ**

He squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. If I were properly alive, I’d be worried about cutting off circulation. But I don’t care. I’d let him grind my bones to dust if that was what he needed.

He’s holding my hand.

**SIMON**

I can’t bear the tentative glimmer of hope that flashes in his eyes; I have to look away. I don’t let go of his hand, though. I don’t think I could if I wanted to, my fingers are frozen in a vice-tight grip around his hand. Loosening them seems impossible. Letting him go seems impossible.

We stay like that for a while. Just sitting, holding hands. We’re used to that, in a way. It was similar at the beginning, right after everything. Then it got better, and then somehow it got worse again. And worse. And worse. It seems unfair to put him through the same thing twice, but here we are.

**BAZ**

“Simon?” I ask tentatively after a while. He doesn’t reply, but his thumb brushes across the back of my hand. “Are you still breaking up with me?” I hate to ask such a needy question, but I need to know. I can’t go on second guessing everything. _We_ can’t go on like that. We need to talk and actually _say_ things.

“You said you won’t let me.” His voice comes out rough and wet, as if he was holding back tears.

“I won’t. Not over something like that.”

“Then I’m not,” he says, but the words sound so heavy that they don’t bring the relief they should. He takes a shaky breath. “But, Baz, I’m… I’m a mess. You have to see that.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_.”

“No, it’s not,” I admit. “I meant… you’re allowed. You’re having a rough time. It’s understandable.”

“But I was better, before.”

“I know,” I say, and then I brace myself for asking the question that I haven’t been able to figure out the answer to. “Can you tell me… do you know what happened? What changed?” (It’s not the question, exactly: the real question is _what did I do wrong._ Even though he said I hadn’t done anything, and even though it seems incredibly self-centred to think his mental well-being should be in any way dependent on me.)

**SIMON**

He deserves so much better, but he wants me despite all odds. There’s only one solution to this: _I_ have to give him better. I have to push through this. I can’t, but I have to. He’s asking for so little, comparatively speaking.

I have to.

For him.

**BAZ**

He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. I’m so used to that it surprises me when he finally speaks.

“I don’t know. I think… I was getting better. And then I stopped. And I realised…that was it. I’d never get better _enough_ . I’d never be…” … _enough_. He doesn’t say it, but I hear it anyway. His voice is barely loud enough to hear and his words sound like they’re being pulled out against his will. I can tell it takes tremendous effort for him to say any of this, and a part of me can’t believe it’s really happening, that he’s really telling me how he feels. I want to gather him in my arms so badly I can hardly breathe, but I don’t think he would appreciate that right now, so I stay still, and quiet, and listen. “I’d never fit in. Anywhere. And one day you’d realise that I – that we can’t – that I’m–”

His hand jerks in mine and I relax my grip immediately, letting him slip out. He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his palms, his entire body heaving. _Oh, love._

**SIMON**

Fuck. _Fuck_. I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this. I can’t have him look at me while I tell him exactly how messed up I am. It’s too much.

I think for a moment that I’m going to throw up, but then I realise that the thing forcing its way up my throat is just a sob. I swallow it down, my chest squeezing painfully. I can’t cry right now. I have to talk to him. I thought it would be easier, somehow. _Listen, Baz, we both know I’m not good enough for you, so let’s just end this misery once and for all._ Instead I’m splaying myself open, ripping my ribs apart and letting him see inside. It’s so much worse than when he gets too close, when he kisses me. It’s the same panic, same urge to run, times ten. Only this time I know I can’t give in.

Baz murmurs something to me but I can’t make out the words over the sound of my own panicked heartbeat echoing in my ears. Then I feel his hand on my back, right between where my wings would be. His touch is barely there, light, hesitant. He’s always touching me hesitantly these days (weeks, months), if he’s touching me at all. Like I’m a wild animal that might spook, or lash out. I remember the way he held me in the truck bed, like I could fall apart in his arms at any moment. Because I keep pulling away from him, pushing him away. I’ve succeeded in making him afraid to touch his own boyfriend. That’s what I’ve done by not talking to him. I have to stop it. I need to stop it.

I lean back into his touch a little, to let him know it’s all right. His hand relaxes and its full weight settles between my shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles.

“I’m… it’s…” I try again. My voice is muffled by my palms, but that’s just how it’s going to have to be. Covering my face with my hands is the only reprieve I get.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” Baz says softly. Always giving me an out. Always tiptoeing around me. Baz of old wouldn’t be like this – he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me to use my words when it was important. _I_ made him like this.

_Use your words, Simon_. That’s what everyone always told me. I was never good at it. I’m even worse at it now. But I have to try, even though I don’t know what words I’m supposed to use. I’m not sure there _are_ words for the things I feel. Maybe Penny would know what it’s called when you want something so badly but the idea of actually getting it makes you want to hide somewhere where no one could find you; I certainly don’t. But I have to try. Baz deserves someone who makes an effort, at least. He loves me.

“I don’t want to push you away,” I say – I wheeze, really. My lungs feel so constricted I’m not sure they still work. “I don’t, but it – I can’t help it. I – I _miss_ you, Baz, but I can’t – when you – it gets too much. I get – scared.”

“Of me?” Baz asks, and I shake my head vehemently. Of course that’s what he’d think, but that’s not it at all. I’m not scared he’d ever pressure me, and I’m definitely not scared that he’d _bite_ me. Perhaps those would be rational fears, but I’m not known for being a rational person.

“That you’ll…” _He loves you. He deserves honesty. You’d give him anything. Give him this. Tell him._ “... see me. For what I am. And you won’t want me anymore.” 

This ultimate, pathetic admission takes all the strength I have left. I feel like I’ve talked for hours, like I’ve pulled myself apart with words, bit by bloody bit. But at the same time, I’m not sure I’ve said anything that makes sense, that Baz can understand. It’s the best I can do, though. I can’t say anything more – I can’t even hold myself together.

I fall apart.


	3. Chapter 3

**BAZ**

I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of my depth. I can’t even begin to process the things Simon said, or what they mean, or the fact that he said them at all. It was like watching him pull out his own teeth. It was so hard for him, but he pushed through – he’s Simon Snow, brave, determined, stubborn. My miracle boy. Always willing to push himself to the limit.

He’s definitely hit it now. He’s shaking under my hand, pulling in gasping breaths that sound like sobs. He’s still covering his face and I’m not sure if he’s crying or hyperventilating or both. I haven’t the first clue how to help him. My first instinct is to pull him in my arms, hold him against my chest, press kisses to his curls and rock him gently until he calms, but there’s a good chance that would be more soothing for me than for him. Maybe he’d prefer I left, gave him some space, but I can’t, just in case he  _ doesn’t _ want me to leave. I can’t think of a worse thing I could do to him than leave when he needs me, especially after what he’s just admitted to me. So I stay, and don’t hug him even though it breaks my heart not to, ineffectually rubbing his trembling back and saying stupid, unhelpful things.

“Shhh, love. It’s okay.” (It isn’t.) “You’re okay.” (He isn’t.) “I’ve got you.” (Have I? Maybe.) “Thank you for telling me all that.” (Like I’m his parent who’s read an article about how to react to being come out to.) “I know it was hard for you.” (Patronising.) “We’ll get through this, I promise. It’ll be all right.” (I shouldn’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep.)

He quietens after a while. The trembling dies down and he sniffles under the cover of his hands. I take out a handkerchief from my pocket and touch it lightly to his knuckles. “Here.”

He lowers his hands and takes it, turning his head away from me as he wipes at his eyes so that I can’t see his face. I can feel the embarrassment wafting off him in waves, and my heart lies torn to shreds at the bottom of my stomach.

“Shall I make some tea?” I ask, feeling stupid and useless. The coffees he brought have long gone cold, barely touched. I could  **Getting warmer** them, but Simon prefers tea in moments of emotional distress, and anyway, it’s not really about that. It’s just a way to ask him whether he needs a moment alone.

He nods, and for once I’m not hurt that he’s sending me away. I can tell he’s acutely embarrassed, and my presence isn’t helping. It’s all right, he just needs a little bit of time to compose himself. And to be honest – I need a little bit of time to compose myself, too.

“I’ll be right back,” I murmur, stroking down his back one last time, and I retreat to the kitchen. Once there, I lean against the counter and exhale deeply.

Fuck. This is a mess. Simon is… I knew he wasn’t all right, I knew he was depressed, but I never imagined he’d feel  _ unworthy of me.  _ The thought seems completely absurd – him, unworthy of me! – but I really should have known, shouldn’t I? He as good as told me at the Leavers Ball, didn’t he? And I, in a frankly alarming display of inexcusable naivete, thought that it would be enough to tell him I chose him and wouldn’t change my mind. As if I hadn’t learned anything. As if I didn’t know what Simon Snow won’t just take your word for it when he’s gotten fixated on an idea.

I should have seen this coming. I should have… Crowley, I should have made sure to show him every single day how deeply loved he was.

I think back to everything he said, and the way we’ve drifted apart gradually starts making a nauseating kind of sense. He felt unworthy, insecure, purposeless. So he started pulling away from me, not because he didn’t want me, but because he was afraid  _ I _ wouldn’t want  _ him _ – he was just trying to protect himself. But I saw it as a rejection, and I was so afraid to do something wrong, to pressure him, to make him uncomfortable, that I started withdrawing too, and of course he saw that as a confirmation of his fears… and now here we are.

But we can fix this now, can’t we? Now that I know how he feels. Now that he knows how I feel.

… does he? Did he believe me this time? I can’t make the same mistake twice. I’ll have to keep telling him. Showing him. I need to find a way to do that while respecting his boundaries. He must never feel pressured, but always, always loved.

Which won’t solve any of the other things he said. About not belonging anywhere. About not having a purpose. It makes sense, now, why he was so much more… bold and approachable in America. He got to experience being out in the open with his dragon parts on display, and he had something to fight. Rage surges up in me: I wish I could personally resurrect the Mage and then kill him again with my bare hands. And then repeat the process several times in increasingly creative ways.  _ He  _ made Simon believe he was no good unless he was fighting something. No one should ever be made to feel like that.

We’ll have to find a way to address that, somehow. I have no idea how. But we’ll figure it out. We have to.  _ We will. _

**SIMON**

I feel strangely disconnected from my body. I sit there, cheeks hot from tears, eyes burning, Baz’s sodden handkerchief in my hands, and I’m exhausted, miserable, ashamed. But at the same time, I’m just watching myself feel those things and I don’t really care anymore about any of it.

I’ve pulled the deepest, ugliest things from the bottom of my soul and let Baz see. Nothing else matters anymore.

**BAZ**

He’s still sitting in the same position when I come back with the tea. I recognise the thousand-yard stare in his eyes – there’ll be no more words from him now. That’s all right. We’ll have to talk about it all again, probably more than once, but it can wait. He’s told me more about how he feels today than he ever has before, and he deserves a break.

I set the mugs of tea on the coffee table next to the undrunk cups of coffee and sit down next to him – closer than before, but not touching. He doesn’t look at me or take his mug, but that’s all right too. Whatever he needs.

I lift my hand and lightly touch the tips of my fingers to the curls at his temple.

“Is this all right?” I ask softly, bracing myself for rejection. It won’t really be a rejection, I tell myself, not of me, just of this particular touch in this particular moment. But then he nods imperceptibly, and I sigh in relief as I bury my fingers in his hair. And then  _ he  _ sighs in relief, leaning into my touch as his eyes flutter closed. I’m certain my heart’s going to explode with tenderness.

“You don’t have to talk anymore,” I whisper to him, “just listen, okay? I need you to know that… there’s no one else for me in this world. There never could be. I was lost the moment the Crucible drew us together.” I’m laying my soul bare, but it’s not actually scary at all. He did the scary part – this is nothing. This is just the basic truth of my life. “There’s nothing you could do, nothing you could  _ be _ that’d make me stop wanting you. Loving you. I know you think I can’t know that, but I do. You’re it for me, Simon. I hope one day you’ll believe that.”

He sighs again and his face twists as if in pain, and for a moment I think I’ve miscalculated terribly. He moves, making my hand slip out of his hair, and I think he must be pulling away, but instead he draws  _ closer _ . To me, into my arms. Presses himself against my chest, clutches at my shirt, pushes his face in the crook of my neck.  _ Simon _ .

I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, and he goes willingly, eagerly. As close as he can be. Time passes and he doesn’t let go, so I don't either. I hold him, and hold him, and hold him, until he falls into an exhausted sleep in my arms. 

**PENELOPE**

Simon woke me at an ungodly hour to ask me to spell his wings in, which was enough to make sure I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, despite the fact that my body was still on American time and thought it was the middle of the night. But it had been ages since Simon had asked me to spell his wings before he left the house. (It had been ages since he left the house.) And he had that look on his face that meant he was going to do whatever he’d set his mind on and I’d get no straight answers out of him. Once I was awake and worrying about Simon, I naturally also started worrying about Shepard’s curse and the fact that the Coven was likely to break down the door at any moment, and sleep was lost.

So I got up, made myself a cup of tea and now I’m just sitting here, trying to come up with a line of defence for when we’re inevitably tried for risking exposure of the world of mages, and doing my best to ignore the nagging feeling that Simon’s out there getting into trouble. About two hours after he left, I give in, pick up my phone and text Baz.

_ Is Simon with you? _

I don’t want to worry him, but in the event that Simon  _ isn’t _ with him, we really need to know, don’t we? Who knows what he could do in his current state of mind. I spend some minutes hypnotising my phone, but there’s no answer. Maybe Baz is still asleep. Maybe Simon’s there and they’re finally talking. Or breaking up. (They can’t break up.) Or making up.

Right. Not the train of thought I want to follow. Let’s focus on something else. I wonder if Mum will be willing to help Shepard with the curse once she finds out he was involved in the mess we made in America. Shepard’s still asleep on the sofa, stretched out on his back with an arm thrown over his head, displaying the markings. I feel an urge to step closer and examine his bulging bicep – that is, the tattoos on it – more closely. 

My phone chimes, tearing me away from my thoughts. It’s Baz.

_ He’s here.  _

Well, thank Morgana. I think. Unless he’s there to break up.

_ Everything OK?  _ I ask, biting my lip.

Baz replies almost immediately. 

_ You’re hilarious, Bunce. _

_ Everything’s a bloody mess. _

_ But we talked. _

_ It’s a start. _

**SIMON**

I wake up to the smell of cedar and bergamot. For a moment I think I’m back in our room at Watford, and I smile at the thought. Then I open my eyes and I realise I’m lying on Baz’s aunt’s sofa and my wings have popped while I was asleep. Baz is sitting on the floor by my head, typing on his phone, in an ideal position for me to sniff at his hair. I’m still half asleep, so I do just that. 

He notices and turns to face me, his phone immediately forgotten. 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispers, smiling at me tentatively. Our faces are very close like this, uncomfortably so, and I move to sit up. I’m not sure how ready I am to meet is piercing grey eyes right now, after… everything.

“How long was I asleep?” I ask, trying to cover the awkwardness.

“Only about two hours. How’re you feeling?”

I honestly have no idea how to answer that question. I shrug, avoiding his gaze. “I, uh… bathroom,” I mumble and make a hasty retreat, away from his concerned, assessing eyes.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror is pale and puffy-eyed. How  _ am _ I feeling? Exhausted, definitely, despite the nap. Like I’ve run a marathon in my sleep. And unsure how to face Baz now after everything I said. Everything  _ he _ said.

Merlin, the things he said! About how he feels about me, how he  _ loves _ me. He gives me so much, and I have so little to give back. How can I look him in the eye when I know I can never deserve the love he gives so freely? But I can’t punish him for my own failings. I have to give him the best of me, even if the best of me is objectively rather terrible.

He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room when I come back. He makes an aborted step towards me but stops himself, clearly unsure whether I want him any closer. It breaks my heart to see that, and I make a point of stepping closer to him than I normally would, even though I feel stark naked in front of him. I still can’t quite meet his eyes.

“Um,” I say to break the uncomfortable silence. “Sorry about… all that.” I gesture vaguely towards the sofa, encompassing everything that happened on it.

“Don’t be,” he says softly. “It was necessary.”

“Yeah,” I admit and desperately try to come up with something else to say. “Apparently communication is key in a relationship.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Did you read that in a self-help book?” he asks, and he sounds almost like himself again.

“Shepard said that.”

“You talked to him about us?” He looks understandably shocked.

I shake my head. “I talked to Penny – well, she talked to me – and he butted in.”

Baz snorts, and I feel my shoulders relax a little. “Of course he did.” I meet his eyes briefly and he gives me a small smile that feels like sunrise. “I suppose he has a point.”

“Yeah.” I pull at the back of my hair, trying not to fall to pieces again. “I. I know it’s my fault. That we. Didn’t. I just. I didn’t know  _ how, _ and… and I still don’t, really.” Surely  _ communication _ isn’t supposed to feel like gutting yourself.

“Nor do I,” Baz admits. “But we’ll try, yes? We’ll figure it out.”

I make myself really meet his eyes then. It’s hard not to flinch before the love and determination I see there, but I force myself to keep looking. I owe him that much. I nod, and I think about kissing him. It think about taking a step closer, taking his head in my hands, pressing my mouth to his. My thumbs stroking over those impossible cheekbones, his cool tongue slipping between my lips--

No. Even just thinking about it is too much, and I lower my eyes in shame. I wish I wasn’t like this.

“Simon, can I hug you?” Baz asks then, his voice barely a whisper. “You can say no, it’s all right. I just – I’d like to, and I need to know if it’s okay.”

I hate that he feels the need to ask. He’s my boyfriend, he shouldn’t have to. But at the same time I’m glad that he asked. I guess it’s better, for both of us, if I tell him in advance I’m not ready, rather than freezing in his arms and getting overwhelmed by the need to run and hide. So,  _ am _ I ready? I want to hug him, want to be close to him in any way possible, but  _ can _ I? I imagine hugging him now, being surrounded by his familiar scent,  _ comforted _ by his presence, and an intense craving flares up in my stomach. Hugging is easier than kissing.

“Yeah. Okay. Please.”

He moves slowly, even now giving me an option to back out, but when his arms come up around me, I know I’ve made the right decision. I exhale shakily and pull him closer. Crowley, I missed this. Him. Being close to him. It just feels so  _ right _ . I want to warm him – I can give him so little, but I can give him my warmth. I wish I had never started fearing this, never put up those barriers between us.

“Do you… Is it better if I ask first, before I touch you?” His breaths ghosts over my hair, and I shiver. I suppose it is better, in a way. Easier. But how is that fair to him? When I asked him if I could kiss him, back in the truck, he told me I didn’t have to ask. Yet here he is, asking me if he should ask permission every single time before touching me. And if he asked to kiss me right now, I’d have to say no, wouldn’t I? There’ll definitely be more times like this, when I’ll have to say no. How long until he gets fed up? 

“There’s no wrong answer, Simon,” he murmurs when I’m quiet for a little too long. “If you need me to ask, I’ll ask. Gladly. Communication, right?”

“What if I say no too much?” I never want to say no to him, I hate the idea of denying him anything, but…

He pulls back a little and takes my head in his palms, making me look him in the eye. “You’ll say no as many times as you need to. There’s no  _ too much _ . I just want to know what you need, and if what you need is me not touching you, I want to know that too.”

He’s looking at me with so much tenderness in his eyes and touching me so reverently that I can hardly bear it. I  _ can’t  _ bear it, actually. I have to duck my head and hide my face in the crook of his neck. This is why hugging’s so much easier than kissing: you  _ can  _ hide from the person hugging you, at least a little.

“What. What about what  _ you _ need?” I say into his neck, because this communication thing has to go both ways. “This can’t just be. You being bloody  _ noble _ and understanding while I can’t even… even…” I don’t finish the sentence, because the list of things I can’t do is fucking endless. 

He lets out a somewhat exasperated sigh. “You, of all people, don’t get to lecture anyone about anyone being too noble, Snow. And you know what I need: for you to finally learn to chew with your mouth closed. It’s my dearest wish.”

It’s so good to hear him sound  _ normal _ that I almost start crying again. But I can’t let him get out of this, it’s too important. “Baz. I’m serious. Tell me what you need.”

He shifts in my arms, stroking slowly up and down my back around my wings, and he stays quiet for a while. I wonder if he’s ever given this any thought – to what  _ he _ needs. Noble idiot.

“I need to have a way to show you how I feel,” he says after a moment. “I hated not being able to do that.” 

My heart twists. Maybe this whole thing would be easier if he were a little less selfless. A little less gentle. If he cared about me a little less. Maybe then I’d feel less like I’m taking something from him that isn’t rightfully mine. But I can’t tell him I wish he loved me less. ( _ He loves me _ .) He doesn’t need that. He needs me to actually  _ let him _ love me. (He loves me.) Find a way for him to show me.

“I. I think. Holding hands is fine,” I manage to get out. “Without asking, I mean. If you. If that’s.” I gulp, and don’t finish the thought (again). That’s it, the pinnacle of what I’m currently capable of: after eighteen months together, I graciously allow my boyfriend to  _ hold my hand without asking.  _ I try to tamp down the shame. It’s a good thing my face is still buried in the crook of his neck. His cold skin there isn’t so cold anymore, absorbing the heat of my embarrassment.

“Is it?” Baz asks, and I can tell that he’s  _ smiling _ . “That’s good to know. I like holding your hand. I think I’ve got it down to a fine art by now, but I could definitely use more practice.” And fuck, he sounds  _ happy _ . Actually, genuinely happy at the prospect of simply holding hands with me. And I – I love him so much. Crowley, I love him  _ so much. _

“Baz?”

“Yes?”

“I. Um. Me too.”

“You too what? Like holding hands? I noticed.”

“No. I mean, yes. But no. I meant. The thing.” Deep breath. Tell him. “The thing you said. Earlier. I.  _ Me too.” _

A second of silence, and then – “Oh.  _ Oh _ .” His arms tighten around me and I feel an actual shiver run through him. “ _ Simon. _ I love you.”

“Uh. Yes. That.” It’s the worst love confession in the history of ever, but it will have to do for now. I’ll tell him properly. Soon. Just not today.

“I love you,” he repeats, like I’ve opened a dam, his lips moving against the hair at my temple in what’s almost but not quite a kiss. “I love you.”

I let him hold me. I let him tell me he loves me. 

It’s all right.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue will be posted tomorrow!


	4. Epilogue

_Four months later_

**BAZ**

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

That’s still a thing that happens. There are bad days sometimes, and sometimes there are even worse days. But the main difference is that these days, when he’s lying on the sofa, staring sightlessly at the TV, he lets me join him.

“Scoot over, Snow,” I’ll tell him, and if it’s a very bad day he’ll draw his knees closer to his chest, making room for me at the end of the sofa, by his feet. That means he needs space. He’ll let me sit by him and rub his ankles, but he won’t be ready to talk, or for anything more physically intimate. It’s okay. He’ll make an effort to open up to me later, once he’s worked through what he needs to work through in his head. And long before that, he’ll get up from the sofa and make me a sandwich, or scrambled eggs, or beans on toast, and I’ll eat it whether or not I’m actually hungry. Because Simon Snow has discovered the art of communicating through food.

He went back to therapy after we came back from America, and his therapist encouraged him to find things he enjoys doing. There’s nothing Snow likes better than food (I’m fairly confident he likes _me_ better than food, but I’d never dare make him choose between me and sour cherry scones), so cooking was an obvious choice that I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of suggesting. He’s rather good at it, actually, even though the kitchen always looks like something exploded in there after he’s done (typical Simon Snow modus operandi). He likes cooking, and he especially likes cooking for Bunce and me. I think it makes him feel useful, like he’s providing for us. So when he’s having a bad day and makes a point of preparing an incredibly simple meal for me, I know it means _This is all I can manage right now, but I care about you, and I’m doing my best._ And I’ll hold his hand in silence for a bit afterwards, to let him know it’s okay.

Other times, like today, he’ll lift up his upper body instead, letting me sit with his head in my lap. That means things aren’t quite so dire. He’s not feeling tiptop, but he’s up for a cuddle. _Wants_ a cuddle. And that’s something. The physical aspect of our relationship is still very… chaste, for lack of a better word. There’s still more hand-holding than kissing, and definitely nothing more than kissing, but we’ve made progress, and we’ve become quite the experts at cuddling. Just having him in my arms, warm and safe and comfortable, knowing he wants to be there… there’s nothing better. (Or, well. I suspect there _is_ something better, but we aren’t there yet. Not for a while.)

“Busy day at work?” I ask, threading my fingers through his hair, giving him an opportunity to talk about random, everyday things if he feels like it. He’ll tell me what’s bothering him in his own time. Or not. He doesn’t have to tell me every single thing that weighs on his mind for us to be okay – it took me a while to accept that, but I got there eventually. We talk a lot now, comparatively speaking. We talk about all the important stuff. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and sometimes ends in tears, but we muddle through. I’m proud of us. I’m proud of Simon, above all, for taking all that pig-headedness and putting it to good use.

“Hmm. A bit,” he murmurs. He puts a hand on my knee and strokes gently. “A woman came in and ordered an americano with seven extra shots of espresso and then gulped it down on the spot. Not entirely sure she was human.”

“Was it Fiona? Sounds like Fiona.”

Simon has started working in a nearby coffee shop three times a week. Bunce wasn’t ecstatic when she found out he decided to do that instead of going back to uni, but as far as I’m concerned, anything that makes him leave the house even when he doesn’t feel like it is a good thing, and Snow was never much of a student in the first place anyway. This seems to be working out well for him so far, and that’s all that matters to me. I try not to get insanely jealous of all the customers who definitely slip him their phone numbers on a daily basis. He makes it up to me by inventing terrible coffee drinks for me to try. (I love all of them.)

He chuckles weakly, then reaches back for my hand that isn’t in his hair and brings it to his lips. My heart squeezes when he kisses my knuckles, like it still does every time he surprises me with a tender gesture.

“I was thinking about joining a fencing class,” he says after a while.

“Fencing class? That sounds like a brilliant idea.” I know he was attached to the Sword of Mages more than he was to anything else that he lost. This could be great for him. 

“You think?” he asks a little doubtfully. “I just… I think I want to, but I don’t know. It won’t be the same.”

“No, I suppose it won’t.” It won’t be the same like fighting for his life, but surely that’s a _good_ thing. “It can still be fun, though, right?”

“I guess… It’s just seems a bit… pointless, you know?” Oh yes, doing something when it’s not a matter of life and death. Extremely pointless.

“That’s like saying playing football’s pointless, Snow. It’s exercise. It’s good for you. Besides, you’ll look hot.”

That makes him snicker.

“Have you _seen_ the gear fencers wear? It’s not hot. I’d look like an astronaut. Or a beekeeper. An astronaut beekeeper.”

“You, competently handling a sword? That’ll always be hot, no matter what you happen to be wearing.” (Or not wearing. But, again, not there yet.)

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but I’m also right.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Bunce cuts in from where she’s sat at the dining table. “I’m _right here,_ you know.” She has her laptop, tablet, several notebooks and three large books spread out all over the table. Apparently the desk in her bedroom was too small for whatever she’s working on.

“We’re well aware, Bunce,” I tell her, even though, in all honesty, I may have actually forgotten about her a little bit. Snow has that effect on me sometimes.

“So _cut the flirting!”_ she hisses. “I’m trying to concentrate here.” She’s acting all put out, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it. I meet her eyes and she can’t even glare at us properly. I smirk at her, just so she knows that I can see right through her.

I’m starting to think we’re all going to be just fine.


End file.
